


Saturday Morning Wrestling

by remy (iamremy)



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Oneshot, POV Second Person, Protective Ethan Hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 20:59:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9257033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamremy/pseuds/remy
Summary: Your husband runs into your ex at the farmer's market. It does not go well.“I had a conversation with your ex,” your husband finally relinquishes.“With your fists,” the policeman says.“It may have gotten a little intense,” your husband concedes.“He has three broken ribs and a concussion,” the policeman says, rolling his eyes at the understatement.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SPNxBookworm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SPNxBookworm/gifts).



> sanjana and i were both crying because we're med students and that's what med students do - and also exams. she promised me a fic if i could finish studying, and so i promised her one in return. [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9253379) is her wonderful fic.
> 
> and here is mine.
> 
> it's in will's pov, since the story isn't clear on who the narrator is. sanj's original prompt was that ethan runs into will's abusive ex when out and about, and, well, she said "intimidate", i translated it to "beat the shit out of". tomato, to-mah-to, whatever.
> 
> i experimented with a new style of writing in this one, hope it works! not gonna lie, it's heavily influenced by mohsin hamid, whose book [how to get filthy rich in rising asia](http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/15815364-how-to-get-filthy-rich-in-rising-asia) i read recently and fell in love with. i would definitely recommend it, so if any of you are looking for something to read, please give it a try!
> 
> anyway. moving on. story.

There’s something to be said about waking up on a Saturday morning to the sound of the doorbell ringing insistently, incessantly. Curse words, mostly.

“Fuck,” you groan as you get out of bed. It’s kinda late in the morning – you’d really been wanting to sleep in and not get up any earlier than necessary, but as usual the universe hates you and wants to ruin your plans.

Your husband’s side of the bed is empty and you wonder where he is. The likely explanation for the doorbell would be him – probably locked himself out of the house when he went for his morning jog. But if that’s the case he would just ring once, or call you on your cell phone.

You sigh as you pull on a shirt and pad downstairs. You’re really not in the mood for strangers right now.

You were right; it is indeed your husband at the door. You were also right about it being a stranger – a policeman, actually, who’s standing next to your sullen husband, arms folded sternly.

“Officer, it’s ass o’clock in the morning,” you complain.

“Well, actually, it’s almost eleven,” the policeman points out. “Is this your husband?” He gestures to your husband, who is glaring mulishly at a point just behind you.

You nod. “Yeah. Is everything okay?”

The policeman snorts. “He was beating the everliving shit out of someone in the farmer’s market. He’s very lucky the other guy didn’t press charges, though for the life of me I can’t figure out why not.”

On closer inspection, your husband does look a little worse for wear. His shirt is a little ripped and muddied, and his hair is disheveled. There is a livid red mark around one of his eyes that’s going to turn dark real soon.

“Dammit,” you groan. “What did you do now?” you ask your husband.

“Nothing that guy didn’t deserve,” your husband replies, crossing his arms. He looks for all the world like a petulant teenager.

“Honey,” you admonish.

“I’d really like to know too,” the policeman pipes up. “He wasn’t very forthcoming with me earlier.”

“I had a conversation with your ex,” your husband finally relinquishes.

“With your fists,” the policeman says.

“It may have gotten a little intense,” your husband concedes.

“He has three broken ribs and a concussion,” the policeman says, rolling his eyes at the understatement.

“And he’s lucky that that’s all it is,” your husband retorts.

You’re taking all this in very slowly; your brain is still trying to work past the words “your ex”. You know exactly which one your husband means, and it elicits a sickness in you. You haven’t thought of him in ages. You haven’t wanted to. And the thought that your husband saw him at the local farmer’s market – so close to you – makes you feel so ill you almost feel dizzy. That is too close. You are tempted to uproot.

“I took care of it,” your husband says, breaking into your thoughts. “He won’t be coming through here again.”

There is a phantom pain in your ribs. Your head hurts, and even though you know you’re uninjured, you can feel the wetness of blood on your face again.

“Babe,” your husband says softly. “It’s all right.”

You blink yourself to the present. The policeman is looking back and forth between you, trying to figure out what’s going on, but your husband has eyes only for you. He uncrosses his arms and reaches out to touch you, his fingers warm on your wrist. There are goosebumps on your skin that you didn’t know were there.

“Am I missing something?” asks the policeman. “I feel like I’m missing something.”

The ringing in your ears suddenly disappears. Everything looks sharp, clear again.

You’ve never talked about this to a stranger, but suddenly you’re no longer ashamed. Or scared. “My ex was abusive,” you explain to the policeman. “I made the mistake of telling my husband about him.” You snort; mistake is an understatement, really. “He gets… protective.” Another understatement.

“Protective,” echoes the policeman, somewhat incredulously. He is likely still picturing your ex's injuries.

Your husband is smiling. You resist the urge to kiss him.

“Okay, let me get this straight,” the policeman says. “That guy abused you, your husband happened to run into him at the farmer’s market, they had a throwdown, and the reason he’s not pressing charges is….?”

“I threatened to castrate him if I ever saw him again,” your husband completes smugly. You are tempted to smack your forehead. Your husband is really the champion of being extra.

In this case, though, it makes you want to hug him and say thanks.

Instead you say, mildly: “I think I can castrate him myself, thank you.”

Your husband nods vigorously. “I told him that too. I mentioned your knife collection.”

“Knife collection?” the policeman repeats, alarmed. Both of you ignore him.

“Ah, thanks,” you say, touched. You love those knives. You are almost 100% sure that you wouldn’t hesitate – much – to stab a bitch with them, if needed.

“No problem, love,” your husband says.

“Knife collection.” The policeman sounds a little dazed. He blinks, and shakes himself out of it. “I’m not going to ask.”

“Wise choice,” you say.

“I’m just going to pretend this morning never happened,” the policeman decides. He nods to the two of you. “Good day, gentlemen. In the future,” he adds to your husband, “please refrain from fighting people in public.”

Your husband offers him his most charming grin. The policeman sighs, and turns to walk down the driveway to where his cruiser is parked.

“So,” you say to your husband as you both head indoors. “You beat up my ex for me.”

“I thought it would be rude to wake you up and make you come all the way down there when I could just do it myself,” your husband says.

You snort. “Sure. That’s the reason.”

“He’s got a very punchable face. How in the name of all that is holy did you ever find that attractive?”

You can’t help but laugh as you reach your bedroom, ready to go back to sleep. “I haven’t always made the best decisions in life, okay.”

“Well, you married me, and I think that’s a good decision.”

“Hmm… jury’s out on that one,” you joke.

He grins, and gets back in bed with you. You lie down so that you’re facing him. The bed is still warm, and you settle in the comforters with a deep, contented sigh. Your husband kicks off his jeans while lying down, then wriggles out of his shirt before getting comfortable. The mark on his face looks darker already.

You want to tell him you love him. You want to tell him how glad you are that you chose him to spend the rest of your life with, and how he exceeds every single expectation you had. You want him to know how much it means to you that he taught you how to trust people again. You want to reach out and hold on to him and never let him go.

Instead you say, “You should probably ice your eye.”

It translates to _I love you_ , anyway.

“Not now,” your husband says. “I don’t want to get out of bed now.” _I love you too. I want to be with you right now._

“Okay,” you concede. “Just know that it’s going to look like a hell of shiner later on.”

He grins at you again. “Worth it. Shiners look badass, anyway.”

You roll your eyes fondly, and shift closer so you can throw an arm and a leg around him. “I’m gonna go back to sleep now. Love you,” you add, because you do and he should hear it.

You can feel him smile. “Love you too,” he says, wrapping an arm around you. You drift off surrounded by late morning sunlight and his warmth, and the safety and security that you’ve found here.

**Author's Note:**

> so what did you guys think? please let me know in the comments!
> 
> love you all x  
> remy


End file.
